


Not The Only One

by Silver Lioness (Rumpels_Darker_Dearie)



Series: Metallic Heart [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Gang Violence, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mutual Pining, Non magic AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 15:39:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16222133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumpels_Darker_Dearie/pseuds/Silver%20Lioness
Summary: On the wettest Glastonbury yet Garrick Ollivander an incense stick seller, was sat across from the quirkiest woman he'd ever met.Madame Sybil Trelawney - a seer.He did not care she was 35 and he was 53 (which added the number 8 as singular digits) - he just knew he was in love with her. When she refused a date to go back to her ward he was beaten up - the only thing that stuck with him was that the number 8 was going to be important to them somehow and that she thought they were soulmates.A month passes and, suddenly, she moves next door - which is the number 8...That is not all that the number has in store for the couple.





	Not The Only One

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sing-Me-A-Rare Vol.2. 
> 
> Much love to Rachael who who did a little tidying and for doing so last minute. 
> 
> Song Prompt - [You Make Loving Fun], [Fleetwood Mac].
> 
> **WINNER OF BEST COMEDY [never gonna give you up] Category of the Sing-Me-A-Rare Vol.2. competition Run by Fairest of the Rare page on Facebook.**
> 
> Thank you all who voted for me, thank you to the admins who took the time and patience to organise this competition, thank you to all those who have read, reviewed, pressed the kudos button and voted - also big huge thank you to my long-suffering family who had to put up with me being a bit snappy in order to get this story finished! Especially my mum who heard me read this aloud twice in three days.

 

** NOT THE ONLY ONE **

  
Sitting across from him was the oddest woman he had ever set eyes on. Her small, thin frame was swamped in tie-dye scarfs of yellow, purple, green, orange and red and differing shades of each colour. Long golden big hooped dream catcher earrings hung from her ears. Huge silver rings of topaz and amethysts adorned her slim, elegant fingers. A white lacy poets top with zig-zag tribal style stitching decorated the elasticated cuffs, and waist - with a matching long skirt - the same pattern wound around the hemline. Even in this sodden hell she managed to keep pristine - how was a mystery to him.

After a long lanky youth with greasy hair - not that it could be anything else in this grimy environment  - had bought several boxes of patchouli, lily of the valley, and rosemary incense sticks, the red-haired girl with him purchased patchouli, rosemary, cinnamon, and freshly mown grass scents – he took time to observe her. The couple had now moved onto clothing and band merchandise. The girl leaning into his arm as he whispered something in her ear, softened his foolish middle-aged heart.

His romantic notions made him turn back to HRH Tie-Dye Queen who was currently occupied telling a blonde girl that her destiny lay with a tall red-head with blue eyes – her happiness _depended_ on attending a football match between Exeter and Portsmouth at the start of the season. The girl giggled and stood up thanking the woman before squealing with her Asian friend.

Meanwhile a bushy haired girl stopped in front of his store sniffing various sticks. _It was a good job I over ordered the patchouli_ , he thought, as she picked up a few boxes along with spearmint and freshly mown grass. She enquired after petrichor to which he advised that patchouli should help that particular scent craving. Then she noticed the books on the woman’s stall. He watched as the sensible looking teenager meandered across the grass pathway to peruse her literature. He decided to listen in on this one.

“I do not normally set store by this branch of science but,” she stuttered. “I have been having odd dreams lately and I just erm…”

“Of course, I am here to help in any way I can, please sit. Madame Trelawney at your service,” she gestured kindly at a seat for the young woman to sit in. “Now tell me about your dream…”

He switched off then – a queue was beginning to form along his stall. The girl was looking skeptically at the woman he was sure he was falling for the more he watched her treat her customers. Secretly admiring her grace, charm and poise towards her clientele. A hard thing to accomplish amongst the earthly scents that hung around the air. Even more so when he took into consideration the ear-splitting, constant cacophonic din that permeated through the heavy falling rain that had begun to churn and cake on the festival goers shoes, trousers, dresses and skirts.

Some looked as if they had wallowed in the sludge, covered as they were head-to-toe in the claying muck, he dreaded to think what the reactions would be when they returned home. Surely some of these cretins had parents that objected to the treatment of garments clearly not acquired through their own means but through their parents wallets.

A strong, burly looking man had approached the stall with the bushy haired girl – she glanced up and beamed at the metal rock star. A guest band _We’re Wolves_ – of whom he was the slowly rising star singer – Fenrir Greyback, (clearly not his real name) smirked down at the girl. Chrome chains hung down his leather belt, hanging in loops around his toned powerful thighs encased in black faded denim. Clanking and jangling together, thus announcing his arrival before his imposing frame took over the whole view. Flowing black and white hair that had the odd braid scattered throughout splayed down his back and shoulders– bulging muscles flexed with every subtle movement. Definitely made to draw the eye of everyone in the vicinity – his hair was gelled either side of his head bunched up to a point that resembled the ears of a wolf. Ollivander gulped and fingered his cane in case this uncouth looking fellow meant harm on the tiny young women at the stall.

“My alpha, you do not need to waste your money on this clap-trap,” his voice boomed throughout the makeshift alley of stalls. “There is nothing wrong with your dreams, I _keep_ telling you I love you no matter what.”

“I was curious that is all,” she said with a sigh. “I am sorry for my boyfriend’s rough mannerisms. I sometimes think he was raised in a forest.”

 _Surprising_ , Ollivander thought, _they seem ill-matched to me_.

Yet the fortune teller smiled encouragingly towards them. The rock star smirked as the politely spoken young woman addressed him as her boyfriend clearly he was proud to have her on his arm. 

“You best come back to our camper van,” he replied.

“Just a minute,” the girl sighed as she stood up and handed Madam Trelawney a crisp ten-pound note for a couple of books that were supposed to identify symbolism in dreams. “Thank you for your help,” she said politely.

“You are welcome,” Trelawney smiled back accepting the money.

Then she took Fenrir’s arm and walked off, her bag full of incense rattling with each trudging step the pair took. He heard a squeal and craned his neck to see if the girl was alright. The wild looking man had picked her up bridal style and walked with ease through the cloggy soil whilst carrying her, the couple loudly giggled, and their eyes twinkled like stars in the sky. 

“Fenrir!” she yelled when he deliberately bounced her the way one does a baby. “Stop, you’re making me feel ill.”

Eventually they faded into the twilight, the sounds of their voices dimmed, leaving only him and the steady sell of more incense sticks. When the queue had dwindled down into nothing he glanced back at the woman he now knew was Sybil Trelawney. 

“So, strange dreams, huh?” he said nervously as he adjusted his yellow polka dot cravat and set his dark forest green trilby hat at a jaunty angle on top of his head. “Does that happen to you er, often?” 

“Dreams are like the enigma code,” the woman replied in ethereal tones. It had turned colder as the night took over, she drew her various scarves and shawls about her. Then she bought out a plain white mug and a thermos flask. He watched as her rings caught the candle light as she twisted open the cap and began to pour. “The subconscious mind wants to _warn_ us or _tell_ us something that otherwise we would not pay attention to – whilst I am not one to discuss private clients problems – her dreams were about secrets that her brain knows but she does not want to acknowledge, or has not yet worked out,” quickly she replaced the lid and thermos back in her cloth messenger bag, “often times, once the code is cracked, the person goes back to the usual nonsense dreams generally are.” 

He followed suit with his own thermos and mug whilst she was explaining, and they sipped simultaneously: “In the case of that girl, her conscious mind _tells_ her she is the person she has _always_ been. Yet her subconscious is telling her that she is _someone else_. She’s adopted, her real parents she already knows, and her current boyfriend desires to wed her in Transylvania." 

“You can be _that_ sure?”

“One does not reveal ones secrets,” she teased, which only made him more interested in what she had to say. It seemed he conveyed the right message as her expression became more serious and matter-of-fact. “All right,” she sighed. “I shall explain further. Sometimes the future is all in body language and chemistry. In her case the situation was thus,” she sat up maintaining eye-contact with him for which he was most grateful. “The moment he showed up her demeanour changed, she was a lot more comfortable, bright, and confident. That man she was with is who she _wants_ to be the second part of,” her voice was cultured like his. Because he was born in the Valleys but was educated at Harrow his welsh brogue had been educated the hell out of him. “Ultimately, it is the third part of _who she will be_ that is highly important to her future.”

“Persistently observant?” he tilted his head to one side. The woman mirrored him as she tilted her head the opposite side as she glared at him from across the way. Huge blue eyes widened when they landed on him. “What?” he asked gulping – he did not like that expression. “Madam Trelawney are you all right?” 

“It’s you!” 

“Er,” he shuffled, suddenly his cravat was too tight, his throat dry and his speech faculty was stolen away from him, “what?”

“You, my own cards told me I would meet my soulmate on the second day of the festival, and here I have. Yesterday my stall was down another avenue but today it had to be pitched here due to the rain storm.”

“You have seen many men today how do you…?”

“I have seen you staring,” her lips tilted in a playful smile. “My name is Sybil.”

“Hi,” he said rather stupidly. “Er, my name is er…”

“Ollivander,” she nodded up to his sign above the canopy, the striped awning protecting his goods from turning soggy from the pelting rain. “Garrick Ollivander, you talked at length to the red-haired girl and her husband.”

“There was no ring.”

“More secrets,” was her enigmatic response as she sipped whatever beverage she’d prepared for herself.

Garrick stared and shook his head. To occupy his body so it did not look like he was constantly looking at her like he was some kind of gentleman stalker, he took out his pocket watch, clicked it open, and checked the time. It was 10pm. Time to close shop. He was tired, cold, achy and frankly fed up from the smearing mud; the scent of ammonia and excrement mingling with sweaty bodies, wet dogs, and other distasteful aromas assaulting his olfactory nerves, to the point where his nose and forehead crinkled. As if that was not putrid enough, a waft of heavy cologne drifted as a man walked by, he caught it all in one whiff and he had to suppress his gag reflex. _What a strange atmosphere to find one’s true love_ , he sighed. If it was not for the amount of cash he made at these things he would stick to his cosy shop in Hereford tucked away in a cobble stoned alley where only the discerning customer would find him. The only bright spot of this year was the woman across from him who also decided to shut up shop.

“I cannot wait to get home. These events often silence the inner intuition and tires the inner eye of truth,” she stood up and packed her books, crystal ball, and other paraphernalia important to her gift. “Still if it was not for the custom and the lost souls found at these events I would not bother.”

“Yeah,” his grin seemed to reach one ear to another. “Just what I was thinking.”

“I know,” she said. Her eyes clouded over as if confused, her hands froze just as she reached out for a box. Her voice vague and ethereal. “For some reason the number 8 is popping up, infinity…togetherness…wonder why?”

“Really? I do not have knowledge of numerical meanings I must admit,” awkwardly he shuffled in his seat, clearing his throat. They continued to gaze at each other; one _bemused_ , the other _amused_ – it seemed miles separated them rather than mere feet. “So er, how do you – erm, are you _sure_ that we’re soul,” he gulped still shifting his position on the three-legged stall he was precariously sat on. “Soulmates?”

“Of course,” she said then laughed a crystal-clear sound that strengthened his heart, bolstering his confidence enough to preen. “Soul mates, seer, inner eye – I know.” 

“Is that so? Well then, meet me here and I will find an alcohol seller and I will buy you a drink.”

“Oh no! I do not drink – besides I have to get home to my ward.”

“Ward?”

“A girl, Luna Lovegood – mother died suspiciously and father – my brother, was found guilty of her murder.”

“Poor thing is she… does she…?”

“Her mother was killed by electric shock – not deliberately – just one of those things. Luna watched the whole thing.”

“How… how old?”

“She’s eight,” Sybil’s lips pursed as she contemplated the grim tale. “I blame the Landlord of their quite frankly unsatisfactory home but Rodolphus Lestrange is _ruled_ by his wife, and therefore his properties often have corners cut. They are _too_ rich and _too_ powerful to have justice booked against them.” Her snarling tone enough of a display of the simmering hatred she held for that couple. “Bloody hierarchy – no such thing as Robin Hood today is there!”

“No, there is not,” he agreed with her sentiments completely. That was why he rarely spoke to his family. The son of a lower noble, he was born to despise the subtle feudal system that still exists in the UK. “The way of this unsavoury world I am afraid.”

Nervously, Sybil shifted her scarves and shawls around her once more as she regarded him again. Ollivander had the image of a squirrel scrutinising a nut cast vividly in his mind that he had to hold in his laughter. Her shoulders drooped when expelling a deep sigh, her eyes spoke at length of her inner pain. Quickly she recovered her composure from whatever mental hell she had briefly descending into. Ollivander felt helpless as he observed how emotionally fragile she seemed as she picked up one cardboard box after another putting them in the boot of her car. A firm slam of the boot announced the fact that she’d finished. _Momentarily_ , he thought, _she seemed confused when she turned around to face me_.

“Tomorrow,” was all she said as she stepped into the drivers seat. Without a goodbye Sybil drove slowly over the slippery ground to wherever her actual tent was. 

 _Tomorrow_ , Garrick sighed, as he watched her drive off into the moonlight.

Unfortunately, like the poets say, tomorrow never came. A group of lads had ambushed him near one of the beer tents and he spent the third day in hospital. He was not allowed out until the police had taken and verified statements – a handsome policeman who introduced himself as DI Shacklebolt – and a pretty sidekick with mousy hair who introduced herself as Sergeant Tonks were being thorough when checking the facts. Constantly radioing back and forth until their team leader had arrested the four lads who beat him to a black and blue bruise.

His interviews with these two interesting individuals were sporadically interrupted by nurses checking up on him and Doctor’s corroborating their colleagues diagnosis. Hours after a frantic young woman rushed into his room and took hold of his hand. 

“Uncle Garrick you look… oh my God, you look… what happened…?”

“Calm down Susan,” he tried to placate his niece. “Everything is fine. I assure you,” tenderly he cupped her face in his hand and gazed fondly upon her. She was one of the few members of his family he had time for. Susan Bones – his sister’s daughter – was his beautiful wild child. “I am not even close to death. All contusions and injuries are superficial. Now, what has happened to my stock?”

“I packed it up at the festival – I had to produce proof I was who I said I was. Even then the officious twit would not let me out of his sight. Are you sure you are all right?”

“I am swell,” he giggled, the effects of the strong pain relief were kicking in. “ _Absolutely_ swell.”

Susan giggled and then looked up blushing at the sight of DI Shacklebolt standing against the lintel. Arms folded across his chest and a stern expression on his face. Confronted by this hunk of man she stuttered and stammered more so than usual.

“When can I take him home?” Susan eventually managed to ask.

“As soon as the Doctors are certain he will be properly cared for at home.”

“I am training to be a carer,” Susan replied matter-of-factly, her no nonsense tone seemed to make Shacklebolt take notice of her. “I practically look after him anyway.”

It was not until three days later that he was allowed to go home. A small smile graced his lips as he entered his nice warm flat that sat above his shop. Susan had done a marvellous job of rearranging his stock and keeping accounts. Once again he teasingly questioned her so-called ‘calling;’ to look after really old people and not stay with him as his business partner. Susan’s tinkling laughter hung in the thick fog of silence that stuck around after she had departed leaving him alone and lonely in his bed.

Memories fade, as they often do at his age, the days merged into weeks. Normality took over once again to the point where he began to think his mind taunted him when he thought of the faded image of _her_. It had been over a month since he had briefly felt love.

Today was raining, he sighed sadly as he sipped his Baileys laced cocoa whilst listening to his CD’s. He had one of those multi CD players (5cds) that could be shuffled. Perfect for someone like him who could never decide his mood and went with the rather childish method of ‘ _eeny meeny, miny mo_ ,’ with his eyes closed and quivering finger moving aimlessly around his growing collection.

Eventually he had blindly chosen Fleetwood Mac: Rumours, Fairport Convention: Liege and Lief, Levellers: One Way, James: Laid, and Duran Duran: Rio. Better evening’s fun than whatever the television people had passed for entertainment nowadays, he thought. Just as he noticed Rumours by Fleetwood Mac show up – as he knew the order by heart – track 8 his doorbell sounded. _Odd_ , he thought, the only people who had a reason to see him at this time of night was Susan, her mother, and Aunt Amelia whom he also liked.

Then he recalled that the DI did say he’d make a personal visit should one be required. He paused the CD then rose up from his lilac velvet sofa and switched the lights on – casting an intrusive yellow glow that drowned out the hazy comfort provided by his incense and candle haven. His leg twinged from a dull pain exacerbated by the warm damp weather as he stood up, muttering curses a pluviophile would scold him for, against the showery rain that was persistently precipitating from the sky. Endlessly drip-dropping from the sky creating havoc to his joints. Joints that yearned for dry heat and baking sun.

Gurning as he stretched up to a tiny shelf where he stored the keys to his back entrance, expelling air gruffly from his lungs as he did so, wincing a little as he circulated the shoulder blade to work out a stiffness that had settled. Then he firmly fit the key in the lock, roughly yanking the door open as he did so: “Yes!” he snapped without looking at the person on his doorstep. 

“I-I’m sorry, I just move…” the voice stopped – and gasped – then he heard the rattling of papers and bangles.

“I know you, do I not?”

“I,” she glanced again. “Sorry,” she sighed. “Should not think so, just moved – had to,” she fiddled with her glasses that were hanging from a chain. It was only then she glanced up. She yipped, there was no other term for the little squeak noise the woman had made when her gaze settled on him. “Oh my goodness!”

“Madam Sybil Trelawney,” he said. “Never forget a face. Want to come in?”

“I must not stay long,” she whispered as if scared of being alone with a man. He wondered why that was. “Please, do not trouble yourself on my account,” she walked in and huddled in on herself. Something devastating had happened to her since they had parted. Calmly, he led her through his old house and crooked stairway to the living room above. He flicked the electric light off. Once more bathing the room in the romantic scents of jasmine, rose and neroli from the candles and mown grass and patchouli from the incense. The effect was immediate as she visibly relaxed right in front of him. “He was – she’s been taken from me.”

“Luna?” he remembered.

“Yes, it – it turns – turns out that her mother is the _cousin_ to my Landlord’s brother-in-law,” she grimaced as she sat, her scornful snort sarcastically snapped her coloured view of the richer classes. When settled she’d quivered in her seat, “Pandora was Lucius Malfoy’s cousin. He owns a _pile_ in Wiltshire – his _wife_ is the sister of Rodolphus Lestrange’s wife. _Apparently_ , Lucius having a son makes him a qualified suitable candidate to look after her. Whereas my maverick ways are viewed as detrimental to a child’s progress. I am her aunt for heaven’s sake, and I love her, what other _qualifications_ do I need?”

“Unfortunately,” he began, making sure that his tone was soft, comforting and gentle. “Money talks louder than blood in the eyes of the law.”

“Unfortunately,” she sighed in agreement, resting her forehead against the backs of her bent fingers. “I love her so much,” Sybil burst into tears matching the dreary evening outside. “I could not do anything against them.”

“So why…”

“I had to move – it was part of the _deal_ ,” she sneered. “I keep quiet, do not create shenanigans, and do not contest the court’s decision – with a generous amount of monetary compensation to move far away. Hereford has always been my favourite city, the history resonates and agrees with my inner-eye. 8 Epoch Alley was available…” it seemed she had drifted off into her own world. 

“You are next door to me.”

“Strange,” her enigmatic reply stunned him, he blinked rapidly and gulped as the foggy expression on her face frightened him somewhat. Somehow he felt as if she had gone on a journey without including him, but he was somehow with her at the same time. Actually she was gazing at the display screen on his CD player. “Did I not warn you that the number 8 would be significant.”

“I believe you did so, yes,” he replied trying to keep equilibrium as the mood changed somewhat quickly.

“Today is the 8th day of the 8th Month, we met on the 28th and you are on track 8 of your CD when I call around after moving into the number 8 of the road you live in. I believe it is 8pm.”

“Put like that it does sound as if the universe is trying to tell us something,” he chuckled.

Surprisingly she stood up and walked up to the CD player. Normally, he disliked other people touching his Hi Fi unit, mouth gaping wide as he knew she was going to… yes, she did! Without his permission his guest had pressed play. The shock and anger he would have felt with anyone else failed to show when it came to Sybil. 

“Wait for the eighth line,” she smiled as she looked down at him. 

Garrick wondered why he had to count the lines of this song, but she was alone now in the world and needed someone to help her through, so he went along with her game. Allowing the ethereal cadence of Christine McVie to wash over, embalming his mind and heart – Ollivander counted. Eventually the eighth line was sung – “ _But I am beginning to wonder why…_ ” he hummed along with the CD.

“Count to the next 8th line,” she said after she’d paused between verse two and three.

Again, the possessive nature refused to rise as she touched his most expensive item, maybe the Universe was trying to show him something. Ollivander laid his head back as his foot swayed in the air to the tune, as his fingers tapped on the sofa – mentally counting the lines to the next 8th as he hummed tunelessly along: “ _And, I don’t have to tell you, but you are the only one…_ ”

Again, she paused the song. “The next 8th,” she encouraged.

“ _It’s all I want to do_ …” he smiled at the songs finale. “I suppose you wish me to put those lines together, Sybil?”

Shyly she nodded in answer. He uncrossed his legs and got up to his over-flowing desk – grabbing a random sheet and a pen he wrote them all down: “But I am beginning to wonder why, and I don’t have to tell you, but you are the only one, it’s all I want to do…”

“ _Don’t break the spell_ ,” she responded in tune almost sounding like McVie herself. “It would be different, and you know it will…” gracefully she sank into the sofa beside him – close enough to cuddle but far enough to respect personal space. “When I lost Luna I thought the world ended,” she said despondently. The previous three weeks had been emotional hell for her. Then a soft smile full of youth and wonder spread across her face. “I had thought I was in the seventh circle – right in the pit of despair,” he itched to hug her close to his body, “then _you_ open the door and suddenly, you make me realise that it has not. She will always be my niece and one day I will see her again but when I refused you that drink – and you did not show up the next day – I was scared my intuition _lied_ to me. Until…”

“ _Until_ – today, yes?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “Until today…”

“We all have to embrace what is different at some point in our lives,” he said turning towards her. “Chin up,” he smiled at her. “I have to admit I find you a most fascinating woman.”

“Really?” her eyes sparkled kilowatts of joy – he could almost see priasmic rainbows of hope in the iris. “I have never been called _fascinating_ before. A lot of other things definitely, but not that…”

“Absolutely, you interest me” he said as he leaned in tenderly tucking coils of her hair behind her ear. “I actually _do_ think you will make loving fun.” 

“As should you do so Garrick,” she sighed into his touch. “Loving should be a fun thing.”

Slowly, as New Moon on Rio began to play, his lips tingled in anticipation of the first kiss they both had for a long time. Gingerly, he brought her head closer to his and, finally, after all their mutual pining; his mouth connected beautifully to her’s! Caressing her cute lips in a soft, slow kiss that left both breathless enough to feel the other’s breath fanning their faces. Stroking cheeks and lips, fingers trembling from withheld passion, his mouth opened wider encouraging her to follow along. When she hesitated he decided to gently nip her lower lip so that his shy partner would be enticed to deepen the kiss.

Hesitantly, he watched her mouth also move apart. Tenderly, he slipped his tongue inside her mouth moaning a little as their tongues met. Instead of acting like a startled rabbit that spied the hungry vixen like he thought she might, Sybil pounced on him! Straddling his hips with her legs heavily petting his face all over with her kisses, the action of which urged him to squeeze her hips and laugh deeply from his core.

Her uncertainty showed at this bizarre reaction: “Is this not…”

“No,” he said grabbing her bottom with his hands. “Please, you are bringing life to this old fool.”

“You are not that old,” she murmured as she frantically kissed along his jawline, removing his cravat at the same time, so she could breathe _him_ in. “Please tell me I am not wrong in my assumption that this is requited affection?”

“Yes, you aren’t wrong,” he responded by heavily kissing her throat. “From the first moment I thought you were lovely, exquisite and so delightfully – _quirky_ – I could not help but fall in love straight away. We’re the odd one outs, the threes and fives of a group that somehow managed to make an…”

“Eight?” she said with a smirk.

“Precisely, an eight which, I believe, is an even number.”

“What you are saying is,” she sat back, balancing her bottom on his covered knees. “ _every_ thing and _every_ one evens out _event_ ually.”

After that their loving was fun, adventurous and sweet. So much so that they lived quirkily ever after – in partnership of love, marriage, business and parental goals too.

Eighteen years later they were still happy! Extraordinarily so, with their excessive brood of eight children. Their youngest child sat against her breast newly born, the other seven around the hospital bed. The child was born on August the 8th 2015 – which, coincidentally added to eight using the single digits – there was no question in their minds what their youngest would be called: Octavia Ollivander had a great ring to it. 

“Last one, Gar,” she laughed. “Too old.” 

“I cannot help if our loving is too much fun!” he joked. ”Octavia was a fluke. No more, I promise.” 

“Good,” she giggled. “35 was a bit too late to be having children to start with.” 

“Lucky two pair are twins eh,” he winked.

Their eldest, Raine, a tall raven-haired beauty, smirked at her parents: “Right, well,” she squared her shoulders, “I have to go. I think we all have different stages of homework to do. Come on.”

The Ollivanders were one big happy, weird, quirky, excellently bohemian family. A family where individuality was encouraged. A unit where artists and musicians were made – Raine was a budding actress tipped to play Catherine Zeta-Jones daughter in a long-held rumour of Mark of Zorro three.

“Are you happy, love?” Sybil asked her husband the moment their other children were gone. 

“Completely infinitely happy. I am so pleased I was willing to give us a try, despite our age differences.”

“Do you realise I am the same age you were when we met?”

“Yes, so you are,” he sighed.

“5 and 3 and 7 and 1 both add up to the same number.”

“True,” he answered kissing his newly born daughter’s forehead. “I am going to have a tattoo done with all our names entwined in the number eight.”

“Where?”

“The right shoulder blade.”

“I will have one on the left.”

With that they bumped foreheads in a fusion of tears of togetherness, love and equality. A love story that exceeded and baffled society when the Ollivander name became a world-wide brand. So much so they won their own reality television show. As a famous couple they had earned equal amount of respect and scorn, but no one could fault them for their views, their family unity and their creativity. 

As for her predictions at that particular Glastonbury?

The giggly blonde did find a tall, red haired boy playing for Exeter – the name now was well-known and loved by many boys! (Including their son, Gawain). Now playing for Leeds United, Ron Weasley had married her and Lavender Weasley was a successful model. They had three children.

The bushy haired girl found out her parents were Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange and had a tearful reunion. She also married the lead singer of _We’re Wolves_ , where she introduced her cousin Tonks to the lead guitarist – Remus John Lupin and they became a team. Hermione Greyback was now the singer of the band. It was rumoured they would perform in the Eurovision Song Contest for Finland 2016, but all parties vehemently denied such claims.  

For the other young couple, they were already married, like Sybil had said. Dr Severus Snape and Dr Lily Snape were giants in their respective fields. He merged his Herbal knowledge and qualifications in Chemistry, with her ability to experiment, to kick start their own beauty brand Lilliput. Soon the Ollivanders and Snape family would be joined together via Raine and their son Quentin.

But now, as her fourth daughter laid on her chest, Sybil was no longer worried about the future – it was assured to be more of the same.

The present was to be savoured too.

 _Boy_ , he sighed as he watched her eyes slowly drooping to sleep, _do I have to worry about the present_. He was too busy contemplating other surprises the number 8 had in store for him to notice his wife drifting off to sleep.

Judging by Octavia, he smiled softly. Smirking the secret smirk of a proud father stroking the raven downy hair that was from him. A lot more.

“Don’t break the spell my love,” he said as he pressed a kiss to his tired wife’s temple. “Embrace differences and sleep well.” 

“S’you too,” she mumbled drowsily.

Garrick Ollivander sat back in the hospital chair hugging the baby as he too shut his eyes slipping off into happy dreams as scenes of his whole life played in the style of a silent movie… Replaying his marriage, raising children, and being told he was going to be a father that last time…

A nurse walked in and sighed at the serene picture that welcomed her in the ward. Quiet as a mouse, the nurse took a blanket from an empty bed and wrapped it around the sleeping man and his child. The name, Luna Flint, dangled from her breast. She had vague but fond memories of her eccentric aunt. Yet here she lay with her own child and husband.

Luna sighed: “I am glad you found happiness, aunty,” she smiled serenely. “You definitely deserve this life.”

No one heard her as she quietly stepped out of the ward with only Octavia gazing at her and sighed before she too went to sleep. 

 _Life_ , the baby decided, _was good!_


End file.
